To See You Again
by Arisprite
Summary: When John wakes to a world where no one can see or hear him, it takes everything he has, including the upheaval of past mistakes to find out what happened in time to save his own life. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: To See You Again

Author: Arisprite aka Ari

Rating/Warnings: T for blood, gore, and creepiness. No sex, slash or bad language

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes (which isn't under copyright anymore to my knowledge) or the BBC version (which belongs to Stephen Moffat and the BBC) I'm jealous of them, not them. Got it.

A/N: This story has mutated into something super long, angsty, whumpy, and all around creepy, but what can you do? I was trying so hard to finish it before nano started, and get it out to you all as a peace offering since I'll be pretty absent for the rest of the month. I was about an hour and a half too late, but I managed it! Woo :) It was written for the 015 Challenge over at the watsons_woes lj group. I'm posting the whole story tonight.

Enjoy!

* * *

January 15, 2011. 8:12 am

John is heading down the stairs from the upper bedroom, already dressed in his favorite cream jumper. Sherlock is being abnormally quiet, and John doesn't mind not having to yell for gunshots or something equally absurd to shut the hell up before he can eat his breakfast. He enters the living room, and looks for Sherlock.

Sherlock is sitting, typing furiously at his laptop. From the looks of it he's been up for hours. John can see that he's peering at an eagle eyed view of the city. He doesn't know why he bothers; he's sure that Sherlock had a full GPS inside his brain.

"Morning," John says mildly. Sherlock ignores him.

John does likewise and goes into the kitchen. There's nothing in the kettle or the fridge, save the scum of the last of the coffee and a container of frog legs. John consoles himself in that at least it is something that is _potentially_ edible, though John really won't ever want to eat it. He feels like he should congratulate Sherlock or something. The nothing potentially lethal in the fridge prize. John settles for running a hand through his hair, and turning back around towards where Sherlock is still glued to his computer. John's computer, he notices. He thought he'd changed the password. _I suppose it doesn't make any difference to him. Privacy is a foreign word to Sherlock Holmes. _

"Sherlock, there's nothing edible in the house. Want to go down to the pub for breakfast?"

Again Sherlock says nothing, doesn't even look up. John frowns. He really can't deal with Sherlock's games this early in the morning, and with no food in his stomach.

"Sherlock, would you listen?" Still Sherlock makes no move. John goes to stand behind him. "What are you even looking at?" The web page is up on a map of London, like he'd seen, and an email from Lestrade.

'Still no word. Have you given his girlfriend a call? L.'

Sherlock is typing a reply.

'She hasn't seen him. Don't you think I would try that first? SH.'

Sherlock pulls out his phone, and presses send without looking. John can see the screen though and…Sherlock's calling him. John's phone is in his pocket, isn't it? He feels his jeans, and no, it's not there. Where…?

Sherlock has cursed loudly. John's never heard that kind of language from his friend, especially with such emotion behind it. Sherlock must really care about this case.

Sherlock gets up from his chair then, whipping past him, and starting to pace. His hands clench and unclench by his side.

John is starting to get concerned. This isn't normal, even for Sherlock's level of weirdness.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John feels a surge of frustration at Sherlock's silence. "What is the matter? Sherlock!" John walks towards him, moving to stand in his way. "Is this some sort of a joke? Wh—" John breaks off as Sherlock moves past him, he hadn't even stopped, nor swerved to avoid John. How did he get over there?

John is feeling that there is a very big 'not good' something going on.

"Sherlock, can you even hear me?" John waves his hands in front of Sherlock's face, with no reaction. "Sherlock!"

He reaches out to grab his arm, fed up with this non-response. He grabs Sherlock's suit clad arm, feels the tense muscles under his hand, and then…

Then Sherlock was across the room, continuing his pacing.

What the hell?

* * *

January 14, 2011. 4: 35 PM

"There's been a rash of disappearances across the city, all roughly around the same time. Lestrade texted."

"And you felt you had to come get me from my job because…?" John is shrugging on his coat. He's annoyed, but not enough that he won't come. He only has a half hour left anyway.

Sherlock opens the door to his office for them both, taking off down the hospital hallway like he owns the place.

"Your assistance is always valuable." Sherlock says mildly. John snorts.

"Is it? That's not what you said last week, when you called me an idiot." Sherlock looks smug, like he's won their argument, sorry discussion.

"Ah, but you are less of an idiot than all the rest of the London population."

"Thanks, Sherlock. That makes me feel so much better."

Sherlock's mouth quirks, but then he pauses.

"Sarcasm?" He almost asks.

"A bit, yeah."

They go on down to the street, Sherlock calling a cab.

"So what's the case?" John asks as they get in. Sherlock slides across the back seat to make room for him.

"Three men go missing within hours of each other. They are all ex-military, and were in the medical field."

Sherlock is looking steadily ahead, but John's brain is beginning to make a connection.

"Hold on, ex-military doctors are disappearing, and you came straight to my office? You think I'm a target?" Sherlock's shuttered face suggests something more. It sounds like Sherlock wanted to make sure John was safe first, before even going to Lestrade. John feels oddly touched. This was the equivalent of a worried freak-out for Sherlock.

"It's possible, yes." Sherlock answers shortly.

John sits back, quirking the side of his mouth a little.

"Shut up." Sherlock was looking out the window. John smiled a little more, and complied.

* * *

January 15, 2011. 8:47 AM

John is frustrated.

Pissed.

Confused.

…Scared too.

John watches Sherlock continue to pace. He is torn between wanting to knock him about the head for ignoring him, and committing himself to a mental hospital. Hallucinations of being invisible to everyone else, or something…

No, this has to be some stupid joke, or experiment that Sherlock is playing on him. It would be something just like him too.

John's teeth and fists clench. He knew just why Sherlock would do something like this too, he was bored, it was interesting or some other stupid reason.

John jerks to his feet.

"That's enough, Sherlock!" He says loudly, moving again in front of Sherlock's almost frantic pacing. "I mean it, stop it! Stop it right now!"

Sherlock still won't react, and John feels a new wave of rage wash over him.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" He fairly roars.

Sherlock makes no answer, not even a twitch, and walks past him again. John's ears ring, and he grabs his flat mates arm, jerking him around, and swinging his fist into Sherlock's jaw, feeling a cracking impact, and then…

Sherlock is making a new turn in his round, with not a mark on his face.

A rush of fear, shame, and horror fills his chest, and he stares wide eyed at Sherlock. What?

John turns and runs down the stairs. The door yanks open at his pull, but as John passes through it; he turns and sees the door shut as firmly as before. He runs down the stairs, banging on the steps, taking them two at a time. He's looking behind him, and doesn't see Mrs. Hudson at the bottom until he runs headlong into her, knocking her bags of groceries to the floor, and she herself to her hands and knees. He gasps, and kneels to help her, but he blinks and suddenly the world has righted itself, and his landlady is carrying the bags sedately back into her kitchen, none the worse for the wear.

John is panting.

_…._

The words keep time with the beating of his heart. He runs again.

The front door acts the same as the door to his flat, and without even thinking he is through it and in the street outside. He runs between cars, almost willing one to hit him, because that would mean that he was real, and that this would be just a dream. You can't die of a car crash in a dream, you just wake up.

A city bus comes down Baker Street, and John leaps out in front, eyes shut, expecting to wake up in his bed, breathing heavily, but fine. It's coming closer, John can hear…

And then it passes.

No honking, no collision. Nothing. John opens his eyes, and sees the back end of the bus turn off their road. Cars continue to drive past him and through he's standing in the middle of the street, no one honks, no one swerves.

No one can see him.

John turns, and treads slowly back into the flat.

In their sitting room, Sherlock is just the same as when he left. There isn't an amazingly accurate description of where he's been, and what he's being doing. There are no complaints of boredom or demands for tea. He just paces, and John stands still, invisible, and watching.

John is sitting now (and yes, the cushions sink with him) but there's no indent when he gets up.

Sherlock's apparent emotional state has deteriorated faster than his own had, and he can't ask him what's wrong. John leans forward and grabs a handful of his own hair, tugging, as if that will let him reach out, and talk to his friend.

"Sherlock, why can't you hear me?" John murmurs. He's at a loss. This is outside any frame of reference that he's ever had, and he doesn't know what to do.

Sherlock is lost too, apparently. He's still pacing, in an erratic loop, gripping his phone, and chewing on a thumbnail. John's never seen him do that, and it makes him inconceivably worried.

Suddenly, Sherlock heaves a great sigh, and throws himself down on the sofa, pulling his laptop towards him. He taps the phone on the side of his head, and whispers.

"John, where are you? Where did they take you?"

John feels like he's been doused with cold water. He's been taken? But he's here, but yet, not really…nothing makes sense anymore. But he is here, even if no one can see him. He leans forwards.

"I'm right here, Sherlock."

It's cold and dark. He's shivering, and that's a good thing, isn't it? Shivering is good because…because….why? It bloody well hurts, and some small part of his mind says the hurting is also good, cause it means…something important. He can't remember. Water drips on his face…dribbles down the side of his cheek, and it's like he is crying. Why is he crying?

Where's Sherlock?

_Coldcoldcoldcoldcold…_


	2. Chapter 2

January 14, 5:20 PM

Lestrade lists off the names of the missing men, and John feels a shifting in his world, a horrible recognition, and a sense of wrongness that this part of his life would coincide with that one. Sherlock looks at him.

"John?"

John shakes his head to clear it.

"Eddie Malcovitch, Hugo Baker, and Daniel Spencer were all on my team in Afghanistan." John says. Sherlock is surprised.

"How did I miss that?" Lestrade speaks up.

"I never mentioned their regiment, Sherlock. You couldn't have known before now."

Sherlock has rushed to Lestrade's desktop computer, typing in the password without hesitation. John exchanges a look with Lestrade, which tells him that yes, Sherlock did just hack into a police computer, what can he do?

Sherlock speaks out.

"John, I need to know every member of that team, and the name of anyone in particular who might have a grudge against you."

John remembers very clearly the circumstances of being on that team. He shies away from that branch of memories, and shakes his head.

"You mean besides the Afghanis, I'm guessing? No, I can't think of anyone." Sherlock's look intensifies at the computer screen.

"And others?"

"We were a small mission task force. There was no one else. Me, Hugo, Dan, and Eddie."

Sherlock makes no response, glaring at the screen for another moment, before leaping up. He strode towards the door, pulling on his long coat. Lestrade turned quickly.

"Hold on, if John's the only one left from that team, then whoever it is will probably go after him next."

John has already come to that conclusion, and good chance is that Sherlock has as well. John snags his scarf (actually he thinks its Sherlock's: he'd grabbed it off the coat rack when he'd seen how bloody snowy it was) off the back of Lestrade's chair, following Sherlock out of the Yard.

"Sherlock," Lestrade follows them out part way. "John needs some protection."

Sherlock turns back, allowing John to catch up as well as affording Lestrade a look at his blazing eyes.

"He'll have it." He says.

"Police protection, Sherlock!" But Sherlock was already out the doors. John gave Lestrade one last glance.

"I'll be fine, Greg. Don't worry." Lestrade doesn't look convinced, but he lets them head out into the abnormal London snow (well, grayish slush) and resolves to call that night.

* * *

January 15, 2011. 8:52 AM

"I'm right here Sherlock" John utters those useless words. They aren't true, at least, not to Sherlock. But it was almost a comfort to say them, like maybe if he says them, they'll become true. Somehow.

Then, incredibly, Sherlock jerks. Lifts his head, as if he's answering, hearing something, and he doesn't know what.

John gets out of the chair (still no indentation where he was sitting) and kneels down in front of Sherlock, beside the table. Sherlock is sitting upright on the sofa, very still.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. Lunges upwards, and heads into the kitchen. John follows him. He's heard him, John is sure of it. Somehow, Sherlock has heard him.

"Sherlock!" John nearly shouts, and Sherlock flinches. "Ah ha! You can hear me!"

"Stop it." Sherlock is muttering to himself, pouring water into a glass. He'd realized they had no coffee or tea. He takes a sip, and dials his phone at the same time.

"Lestrade. Any leads?" John can barely hear Lestrade's voice, sounding remonstrative on the other end.

"Sherlock, he would have texted." John says. Sherlock's eyes flicker over the kitchen.

"Yes, I know you'll text." Sherlock sounds annoyed.

"Sherlock I know you can hear me—"

"Well, keep at it. I can't work without—"

"And really, it's infantile to act like you have an important phone—"

"those idiots you call police officers—"

"Lestrade's doing all he ca—"

"Just tell them—Would you just shut up!" This last part was said to the kitchen at large, though John has a feeling it was meant towards him. He also has a feeling that Lestrade has hung up by now, good thing too. The more level headed men working on his apparent disappearance the better. Though he doesn't know what they will say when they find out that he hasn't gone anywhere. He's right here, if a bit …incorporeal.

Sherlock drops the phone, and sits heavily into the kitchen chair. John pulls out a chair and sits opposite him.

"Auditory hallucinations…what would you say to that, John?" Sherlock says slowly, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a bitter half smile. He then frowns, puts his head into his hands, gripping his curls, and frowning in frustration. "Argh, I need more data. There can't just be nothing to look at. I don't even know where he was taken from." Sherlock is speaking to the table top. He props up his head on his hands, and stares forward, unseeingly through John.

* * *

Everything is cold, dark, wet. His eyes won't open, and his body won't move. He has a distant gladness that he's even able to determine that much. He shivers once…but no more. That's a bad thing.

The north wind doth blow…that poor Robin. But no, there's no wind here. Just the snow…ice. Water, and he shouldn't be so cold… the snow was outside, though. In here was icy.

His thoughts float…_Where_ are you Sherlock?

* * *

January 14, 2011. 5:25 PM

Sherlock catches up to John at the door of the taxi, and they both get in, heading back to Baker Street. Sherlock wants to check up in his records for any of the men, and secretly he plans on discovering the details of that mission. Sherlock saw John's face when Lestrade questioned him; too fleeting for anyone else to catch it, but Sherlock knew John, and knew that there was something behind that slight grimace at the memory.

John sighs wearily as he sank back into the seat cushions of the cab. His mind was churning with memories, all connected to that mission, some good (_a fleeting kiss…_) some terrible (_a bomb blast, words of accusation and revenge…_). He cleared his throat, looking at the passing sights of the city, the only place he could bear to live, and saw the yellow sandstone of the desert.

"John?"

John looks over at Sherlock, blinking the sand out of his eyes.

"Yeah, what?" John asks, trying to look natural. Sherlock merely stares at him with his working-out-a-puzzle face. "What, Sherlock?" John asks again, patience slipping.

"You have a bad history with those men." He states, and it's John's turn to stare at Sherlock.

"A bad hist—Sherlock, I was in a war zone!"

Sherlock sits back, folding his hands under his chin.

"No that's not quite it." Sherlock murmurs

John feels a flash of annoyance.

"What would you know about it?" He snaps. Sherlock eyes sharpen on John, but he says nothing else.

They arrive back at their flat, and climb up the steps, still in silence.

* * *

January 15, 2011. 9:01 AM

"Sherlock, please, Tell me what happened?" John's voice is desperate. It isn't the first time that he's asked; he's got a tightening feeling in his chest that if he could just find out what happened, then he could find some way of getting back. But Sherlock isn't responding anymore. From the set of his shoulders, and the fixed way he was staring at his (John's again!) laptop, John was pretty sure that he _could_ still hear him; he just didn't want to.

"Sherlock, I know you can hear me." John was fed up. Fed up with this whole business, and he wouldn't have his flat mates idiocy making things nay more difficult. "Look to your left, if you can hear this."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to involuntarily flicker over towards the right, where John was sitting.

"Good." John is speaking in his _this-is-your-commanding-officer-taking-over-the-situation _voice, and even Sherlock, the most masterful personality John has ever met doesn't seem to be able to disobey. "That's where I'm sitting, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face flickers in disbelief.

"You're a hallucination brought on by a lack of sleep." No inflection in his voice.

"Yeah right, and I suppose you've never gone so long without sleep before." John leans forward. "Sherlock, you _know_ that's not what this is."

"Then what is it?" Now there's a tiny bit of desperation in Sherlock's voice, and John realizes the trouble Sherlock would be having with this, the terror that his beloved mind was creating things to torment him.

"I don't know yet, but I promise; I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."


	3. Chapter 3

January 14, 2011 6:05 PM

"Write this down, John." Sherlock orders, holding the phone against his ear, while he paced. Lestrade's voice is tinny over the speaker phone.

"Right, well. None of the men had witnesses to their disappearances, but there was evidence that they left their houses under their own power."

Sherlock hums. Lestrade goes on. "Hugo Baker and Daniel Spencer were both married, and their wives noticed they hadn't come back the morning after they were last scene. Apparently these two were known to go out at nights together; bowling they said."

Sherlock scoffs, but keeps silent; gathering data like a spider gathers flies.

"Edward Malcovitch lived at home still, in his parent's basement. He wasn't noticed to be missing until this afternoon. His mother said it wasn't unusual for him to stay out all night, but he always called." Lestrade sounds tired, and John can picture him rubbing his eyes. "We wouldn't connect them at all if we hadn't noticed they were all in the same army regiment. And John, we didn't know that you were teamed up with them either, until you said. Under the circumstances, I'd feel better if you were under police protection." Lestrade's voice is mild; this is only an order if you don't do it. John bristles at it.

"Thanks Lestrade, but I think I'll be fine." Sherlock shoots him a look at where he's comfy in his chair, laptop perched on his knees. John doesn't know what to make of it: a sort of angry protectiveness, which almost immediately fades into his blank mask.

"Anything else?" Sherlock demands, beginning to pull his coat from off the chair back.

"No, but Sherlock, John. Be careful. We don't know what whoever this is is after."

Sherlock sighs noisily, and walks over to where the phone is sitting on the arm of the chair.

"Goodbye Lestrade." He says and presses the end button.

* * *

January 15, 2011. 9:14 AM

Sherlock has the internet up again-searching out of body experiences, ghosts, paranormal and more. John is the one pacing around now, answering tense inquiries thrown at him by Sherlock.

"I don't know Sherlock!" He finally explodes out with when Sherlock asks him if he thinks he's dead or just unconscious. "It's not something people usually have to think about, they just...are."

John's very disturbed by the thought that he (according to dubious Google research) could be dead. He looks down at his hands, and to him they look as solid as ever. Yet, to Sherlock, he is a disembodied voice, with no form to speak of. He swallows.

"Sherlock, we've got to figure this out." John steps up beside the detective. "And we have better things to do than surf the web!" He slams the laptop shut. Then, a moment later, the laptop is still open, with Sherlock is typing away, oblivious to anything.

"What do we suggest we do then?" Sherlock asks harshly, eyes still on the computer. John turns from where he'd been gripping his hair, and really looks at his flat mate. Before he'd been frustrated, scared, but now...now he looks sick with worry and terror. The man's face is whiter than John has ever seen it. John knows he's struggling with this whole thing of putting aside his logical, scientific mind to try to accept that John is standing in front of him, talking to him and yet he's not visible, not there, and his body itself may be in a different place than his consciousness.

John sighs and slumps down into his armchair, across from where Sherlock is scrunched up in his, laptop perched on his knees. John rubs his face.

"Talk to Lestrade, help with the kidnapping hunt. Find those other three men, find who took them, and where. Maybe that's where my body is." Sherlock flinches.

"Don't...say that."

John nods, then realized that Sherlock can't see him. "Okay,"

Sherlock then jerks up, grabbing his coat from off the back of the kitchen chair.

"I need some air." He rushes down the stairs. John leaps up and followed.

Sherlock begins walking down Baker Street, hands in the pockets of his large coat. John trails after him, keeping up easily for once. It was like he didn't even need to move his legs to be able to move forward. He can just ...glide? That really isn't the right word for it, but he can't think of another to describe the sensation. After a moment of sort of-gliding, it gets too weird, and he starts moving his legs again out of habit.

Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth.

"You still here?" He murmurs into his scarf.

"Yeah, I'm here Sherlock." John says. "I'm not leaving, I told you."

Sherlock jerks his head down into a nod, though to an observer it could have been just a twitch.

They walk for a moment in silence. John then stiffens, and stops walking, looking about.

"Sherlock," John calls, and Sherlock stops, and hums an inquiry. John is standing, blinking against the image that suddenly flashed across his mind.

_Himself and another man walking down this very road. The other man's face is obscured, but he can see the ratty coat._

John shakes his head.

"John, what's the matter?" Sherlock's head is bowed, but his eyes are darting around, still trying to find the form of his friends disembodied voice. John steps up beside Sherlock, and clears his throat.

"Nothing, let's go." Sherlock gives him that twitchy nod.

They walk again, making their way down Baker Street, and John is beset by another flash of images.

_A hand held out, pleading for help. _

_He turns into a darkened alleyway_

_The hand is now gripping a syringe, filled with ominous clear liquid. _

John stops walking again, gasping in the wake of the memories; for that's what they must be. This is what must have happened before….well, before he somehow misplaced his body.

Sherlock has turned towards him; he must have heard John's panicked breathing.

"John, what is happening?" Sherlock's voice is low, but worry was plain to hear.

John rubs his eyes, trying to clear the images.

"I keep getting flashes, images. I think they're memories of what happened."

Sherlock has turned intense eyes towards where John's voice is coming from. John tries not to think of what it must look like to the other walkers on the street for the tall, dark haired man to be glaring so hard at thin air.

"What do you see? Can you see anything that could help us find out what happened, where you are?"

"Well, there isn't much…"

"Anything you've seen. Details, John, give me details!" Sherlock is forgetting to speak quietly, and passer-bys are beginning to look at him strangely. He ignores them.

John rubs his forehead, trying to remember. They had just been brief flashes, nothing really distinct, but…

"I think we were here. On this road I mean. There was a man."

"The man who took you?"

"Maybe. I think…I think I was helping him."

Sherlock's mouth quirks. "That would be a good way to get you out of the house."

John snorts. "Yes, well, I wasn't planning on getting kidnapped."

Sherlock nods. "Obviously." He begins to pace in a small circle right there on the sidewalk. "What else, John?"

John frowns heavily, thinking hard. "I…I dunno, I can't remember—"

"Nothing at all?" Sherlock demands.

"No, I can't—"

"Argh, you're useless to me like this."

"Useless? I'm useless. To you. Like this? Sherlock I haven't got a bloody body! I've got no idea what happened, I just woke up _without a body!_ I'm being as use_ful _as I can!"

Sherlock ignores his outburst, which is probably a good thing, as they (well, just Sherlock really) are getting weird looks from people.

Finally Sherlock stops pacing, and starts walking forwards again. John hurries to catch up.

"So?" John asks after a moment. Sherlock shoves his hands into his pockets, mouth twisting in annoyance.

"I've got nothing to go on," He mutters. "You've got to give me more information."

John huffs; he's annoyed now. "I will when I've got it."

* * *

He didn't move anymore. Not to shiver…or call out….just stillness. It wasn't for lack of trying…but the most he could get to twitch was the smallest finger on his left hand. The cold of the room seemed to have pervaded his every cell, freezing every water droplet that makes up his body.

_Sherlock please come and find me…._

* * *

January 15, 2011. 9:27 AM

"Sherlock, where are we going? We've been walking out here for—"

John stops with an intake of breath, and Sherlock turns again towards him with fevered eyes.

"What is it?" He hisses. John ignores him.

His mind is flashing on more of the images.

_The alleyway before him, someone says it's a great shortcut to where they are hidden _(who's hidden?) _and John agrees because he's come down here with Sherlock. They walk, and then there is a __betrayal of trust, someone was lying. _

_Then a sting and paralyzing numbness spreading out from his neck. Then—_

_Pain…_

John breathes in harshly through his nose, becoming again aware of Sherlock's impatient looks. He runs a hand over his face.

"They're not very clear. Someone came to me, we were going towards someone else to help them, I think. We were going to take the shortcut down this alley. Then I think I was drugged."

Sherlock has whipped around, and was now peering down into that same alleyway. They stood at the mouth, where it was still relatively light, but down further it darkened into shadows.

Sherlock pulls out his phone, dials, and then talks as he's walking.

"Lestrade. I've found where he was taken from. Yes. It's an alleyway four blocks down from Baker Street." He gave him the street address. "Hurry, and bring the lights. We'll –Er, I'll wait here."

John noticed the lapse, but said nothing, watching instead how Sherlock ends the call, then drops down to his haunches. He peers at the ground, moving forwards and backwards at a crouch, gathering data. Occasionally he gives a muffled cry of surprise or triumph. John is silent during this part, as is his role.

"John, look at this." John moves forwards to where Sherlock is pointing at the ground.

"What did you find?"

"Blood spatters, here…and here." He gestures to a larger patch, worryingly large in fact. It's all mostly dried still, into a crusted red-brown stain on the concrete.

"I hope that bits not mine." John says a little nervously. Sherlock purses his mouth, nodding in agreement. He turns to continue looking for other evidence, but the place is clean to the naked eye.

Sherlock gives a sigh. "I'll have to wait for the lights to find anything else."

John realizes something.

"How are you going to tell Lestrade that you knew it was here? I mean, almost dried blood stains in an alley aren't a sure indication that it was me. You can't very well tell them that I told you." Sherlock looks thoughtful

"I suppose I'll just have to make it up."

John snorts. "Half of them already think that you make it all up, so I guess it won't be much of a leap."

* * *

January 14, 2011. 6:32

"Stop it." John says flatly. Sherlock looks at him from where he's tying his scarf, raising an eyebrow.

"Stop what?"

"Analyzing me. I don't want to talk about the team or the mission." John is standing by the table shoved up between the windows, just closing his laptop, and staring at the floor. He's aware that be reacting this way, he's only making the mystery of his past all the more enticing to Sherlock, but he can't help it. He _really_ doesn't want to remember it at all, let alone have Sherlock dissect his memories in his cold, probing manner.

Scarf firmly around his neck, Sherlock turns to him with an innocent look.

"I wasn't doing anything, John."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock. I know you're dying to know what happened, but just…leave it."

"What if it's relevant to the case?"

"It's not."

"But how can you know for sure without an unbiased observer's opinion?"

"Unbias—Sherlock, you are not unbiased in this. You only want to know, because I won't tell you, and because it's me, and you can't figure it out on your own."

"I could find out. Mycroft—"

John gives a jerk forwards, pointer finger outstretched.

"Don't you dare."

Sherlock gives a cry of exasperation.

"Why's it so important?"

John turns, flinging his hands up in the air, and actually growling.

"Piss off, Sherlock!"

He storms up the stairs to his bedroom, moving quickly past Sherlock. Sherlock's face had flicked through shock, hurt and anger in a millisecond, and was now back on blank.

He turns and walks out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

January 15, 2011. 9:48 AM

Lestrade's team get's there in record time, and Sherlock and John move back to allow the lights to be set up, and the officers to cordon off the area. The DI himself walks up to Sherlock, a notepad in his hands.

"Alright, gimme."

Sherlock pauses for a moment, then strides towards where the marker cards are being set up around the bloodstains. John follows, wondering what Sherlock's going to say to justify this.

"Well, an obvious clue is the bloodstains. They're patterned in such way as to suggest a fight, and a well fought one at that. Narrows it down, as John is an experienced fighter, and whoever took him had to have been as well, in order to get the advantage."

John smirks a bit; Sherlock knows that small fact well. They'd had many a round in various different types of fighting, usually in an effort to stave off boredom for Sherlock, and keep in shape for John. In martial arts, Sherlock usually won, though John did have a fair bit of training, but in hand fighting, John's army background came through, and Sherlock invariably ended up on the ground.

Sherlock crouches towards a spot on the ground, waving his hands over the pavement.

"Marks here suggest that there were two men, one John's height and weight. They walked into the alley together, but the taller one turned on the shorter. They fought, and then the shorter was subdued, but not without much difficulty. He was dragged then to the other end of the alley, and the waiting car, which then headed off in that direction." Sherlock gestured in the direction opposite from their flat. Lestrade has been following, but now he furrows his brow.

"But how do you know it was John?"

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and John sees the cogs in his head turning, searching for a plausible reason—one that wasn't John himself had told his so. He's been rather lucky so far, and John watches in interest to see how far he can keep it going on the fly.

Sherlock turns back to Lestrade.

"Two men, one short and one tall, both experienced fighters, have an altercation two blocks down from Baker Street. The shorter one is overcome and dragged off. That it was John is the only explanation that fits." Lestrade accepts this spinning, and though John can still see some glaring holes, he's not going to say anything—if he could actually say anything anyway, to anyone other than Sherlock.

Lestrade begins to bark orders at the rest of his team, telling them to take up some blood for sampling, and to take plasters of those car tracks.

John was quite impressed with the details of Sherlock's hurriedly thrown together explanations. Now that he was looking, he could see the tyre tracks in the snow, and the drag marks leading up to it. He hadn't noticed them before.

Sherlock turns slightly away from the crowd of police, and whispers to the air.

"John?" He sounds a bit concerned, and John realises that he hasn't made a sound for ages.

"Still here, Sherlock." He says, and Sherlock breaths a bit easier.

* * *

January 14, 2011. 7:05 PM

It's only been a half hour since Sherlock had left the flat, leaving behind a steaming John, and his own anger and hurt in his wake. Sherlock had been upset; there was no point in denying it.

For some reason, those particular words…_piss off_…coming from John hurts more than the same words from anyone else. Sherlock is annoyed at this.

"John?" He calls as he walks in, prepared to say some rehearsed speech in order to make this strange tenseness he feels go away. He doesn't quite know what John wants him to do, but he'll do his best, because this feeling-guilt- isn't comfortable, and he wants it gone.

"John? Where are you?" He'd expected to find John puttering around the flat, cleaning haphazardly, as was his habit in times of stress. No sign of him in the living room. He bounds up the second flight of stairs, towards John's bedroom.

"John, are you in there?"

There was no answer, so Sherlock pushes open the door. He sees an immaculately made bed, but no flat mate to be seen. Sherlock furrows his brow. He wasn't downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, because he'd heard the TV playing too loudly in her ground floor flat for her to have company. She always turns it down when John's watching with her, because she likes to hear his commentary. And he hasn't gone out, unless he went without his brown coat, since that item of clothing is currently draped across the armchair in the living room.

But he isn't here.

Sherlock checks the bathroom, and his own bedroom to be sure, but no. There is no John Watson to be found anywhere.

Sherlock is concerned, if only because he knows that John doesn't go out in the middle of January without a coat. He's still not used to the climate of England. He was still cold in May.

Sherlock goes down the staircase, and pops in on his landlady.

"Mrs. Hudson, you haven't seen John anywhere have you?"

She turns towards him from her armchair, muting the telly as she did so.

"No, I haven't dear. Did you two have a little domestic?" Sherlock barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He says, pulling his head back through the door. Mrs. Hudson's voice stops him.

"Though I did hear the door not too long ago. I didn't think anything of it."

Sherlock frowns, and flicks through various scenarios. Still nothing that really fits.

He's getting more and more concerned, but he tamps down on those feelings, instead giving Mrs. Hudson a fleeting smile.

"Thanks," And he heads back up the stairs.

He tinkers with an experiment for an hour, then paces for another half hour, prepared to dive down onto the sofa the moment he hears a foot on the stairs. He spends another twenty minutes staring at his phone, willing himself to believe that he's just overreacting, while all his instincts scream at him to press send. Moments later he's on the phone with Mycroft.

"Mycroft, I need John's location."

"Have you lost your friend, little brother?" Mycroft sounds amused. Sherlock is decidedly not.

"No. Just give me his location."

"Testy, aren't we? I do hope everything's going well?" Sherlock growled.

"Mycroft…"

"Do calm yourself, Sherlock. My people are finding him as we speak. Oh…"

Sherlock had been calming a little, even as his brother's games made him angry, but at this little exclamation of surprise from his usually unflappable brother, his blood runs chill.

"What, Mycroft? What is it?" He hears Mycroft cover the speaker, muffling a hurried conversation, then—

"Sherlock, it seems that my surveillance has failed in every respect. They haven't seen him since the two of you returned to your flat almost three hours ago." Sherlock feels his chest tighten.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"We fought, and I stormed out. I returned not half an hour later to find him gone, but his coat still here. He hasn't come back."

Mycroft hums, deep in thought.

"I will get my people on it. I'd advise you to call Lestrade, work on finding him through the police efforts, while I take the more dark channels. I will call you if I find anything."

Sherlock hangs up, and dials Lestrade.

"Lestrade, John's gone missing."

* * *

January 15, 2011. 10:03 AM

Lestrade's team leaves Sherlock standing off to the side, and if he's not being his normal rude arrogant self, then there's few who will complain. There are even fewer who will put that change in behavior to John's disappearance, and none at all out of that small group would ever wish for that.

Sherlock himself is oblivious to the looks he receives, concentrating on thinking over the very few clues he has. Most of them he can't share with the police, seeing as how he obtained the clues from the incorporeal voice of his friend.

John, the said voice, was at the crime scene too; actually standing a few feet to Sherlock's left. Not that anyone could tell that, since he was invisible to all, and inaudible to everyone aside from Sherlock.

Thus no one saw when he suddenly grabbed his head, and squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

January 14, 2011. 6:40

It's only been a few moments since John stormed upstairs, and Sherlock left the flat. Already John is feeling the shame creep up on him. He knows that for once it's entirely his own fault. If he hadn't been so defensive about that whole business, or better yet, told Sherlock everything, then they'd be out doing their investigations just like always. John rubs his face, and is about to

flop down on his bed when he hears a knock downstairs. He waits a moment, to see if Mrs. Hudson will get it, but the distant sounds of her television float up to him, and he knows she has it too loud to hear the door.

He thumps down the two sets of stairs, wondering who it was. He has some vague idea that it was Sherlock come back, and really he'd welcome him. He is feeling pretty silly about the whole business now.

He reaches the door and pulls it open, and comes face to face with someone he never thought he'd see again—and not because last he'd heard he was reported missing.

"Eddie?" The man in front of him is tall, lean and sandy. He's wearing a ragged coat, looks like he could use a full meal (like someone else he knows). Eddie's panting heavily, and his eyes are wide, and darting around.

"John," The man whispers. "Are you alone?"

John furrows his brow.

"Sure. What are you doing here Eddie, I heard you were missing?"

The man gave a jerky nod.

"I've just escaped. Hugo and Dan are still there. We've got to save them!" He was getting agitated, and John steps closer, hands outstretched in the universal peace symbol.

"Sh, it's okay. Why don't you show me where they are, and we'll go get them?"

Eddie turns and pulls John out with him by the sleeve.

"Yeah, they are this way. We've got to hurry!"

John follows him, very very concerned, but not wanting to let his leave his sight. Eddie breaks into a run, and John does as well, they head about two blocks down Baker Street and into a side street before John stops him.

"Eddie, wait up. I'll call the police to meet us there. I also have a friend, Sherlock Holmes, he's a detective. He'll be able to help." John is pulling out his phone, ready to make a call when Eddie knocks the phone out of his hand.

"Eddie?" John goes to pick it up, when he catches a glint of shiny metal in his former teammate's hand. He jerks back but the needle tip catches his neck. "Eddie, what the hell?"

He fingers the tear under his ear. It's bleeding a little, but it didn't seem to have penetrated deeply. There's still fluid in the syringe in Eddie's hand.

Eddie is looking at him; his face is twisting in what looks like guilt or shame. John takes a step forwards, trying to grab the wrist that holds the needle. Eddie twisted away, and now his face looks angry.

"You had to fight, didn't you? You always have to save people. Well, you know as well as I do that it doesn't always work. You couldn't save Lisa!"

John is standing with his hands out, placating, but now his fists nearly clench in anger.

"Please don't bring her into this." He says tightly.

"She's been in it all the time, John! She is this!" Eddie's still got the syringe between them, and John is starting to think that more of the mystery fluid got into him than he'd initially thought. His head is feeling a bit fuzzy.

"I already got Hugo and Dan. They shouldn't last much longer. I was saving you for last, since it was you that killed her!"

"No… I didn't—" John's shakes his head to clear it.

"Don't lie, John. I know you threw that grenade. I know you couldn't stand her liking me, and not you!"

Eddies taken a step back, grabbing a wooden board from a garbage pile. There were wicked looking nails embedded in it. Adrenaline floods his system, temporarily canceling out the effects on whatever drug Eddie's used. John leaps forwards, dodging the board, and flinging a fist into the man's nose. Blood spurts and John feels a primitive triumph. First blood.

Eddie runs at him, swinging the board, but again by sheer luck John misses it. He takes a punch and gives more twice over, but it can't last.

The swinging nails catch him in the side then, and he shouts, going down to one knee. Eddie swings again, and John rolls with the hit, so that the nails only graze his shoulders and neck, though he feels a rather nasty scrape along his cheek open up.

Back on his feet, he kicks out at the man, intending to take him down. However Eddie is too quick—they had both been trained in hand fighting, and had even fought against each other—he jumps to the side, striking out hard. The nails take out a chunk of his right thigh, and he goes down hard with a cry. The drugs are making themselves known again, though that could just be the shock. He grips his leg, and feels wetness flowing from the too-large hole. John blinks back tears of pain, and looks up to see Eddie standing over him.

"This is for what you did to Lisa."

John sees the board swinging towards his face, and has a fleeting image of all the damage a few nails can do to the eyes, nose, mouth, then…the sky turns black.


	5. Chapter 5

January 15, 2011. 10:04 AM

"John, please, listen. John! John, tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock's increasingly frantic, though hissing voice eventually breaks through the image of Eddie Malcovitch standing over him with a nail-embedded board, and John gives a shuddering gasp.

"Sh...Sherlock?" He questions, still breathing hard. Sherlock is crouched in front of him, as if he could actually see him, although he probably just followed the sounds of his gasps from whenever John had collapsed to the snowy ground. Sherlock's face is ashen, eyes openly concerned, but he's making an effort to appear normal. His phone is held to his ear to mask conversation. A clever idea, John absently thinks.

"John, what was that?" He sounds shaken. John clears his throat, rubbing his eyes, and trying to pull himself together.

"Another flashback. Much clearer this time."

"What did you see?"

John can see that Sherlock is getting weird looks from Lestrade and Donovan further down the alley, but Sherlock obviously doesn't care, so why should he?

"The man, I know the man who took me."

"Who was it, John?" Sherlock's question is anxious, and too loud.

"Keep your voice down. It was Eddie Malcovitch. One of the ones who went missing, but he was the one taking them. He said to me last night that they wouldn't last long. We fought. Sherlock, he got me pretty badly with a nail embedded board. If I didn't get some pressure on that gouge…I may well be in big trouble by now."

Sherlock's gaze had darkened.

"Where did he take you?"

John shakes his head, and then remembers that Sherlock can't actually see him, good as he may be at guessing where to look based on where his speech is coming from.

"I didn't see that far. I'm pretty sure I was unconscious by then." His brain helpfully adds _at least_ to the word unconscious, and he tamps it down. He does not want the disturbing thought that he might be dead, and Sherlock doesn't need that distraction either. John saw his face when he told him about his potential injuries.

Sherlock stands then, and starts walking back towards their flat, leaving Lestrade and company looking after him bemusedly.

"Coming?" He mouths to John. John stands and catches up—easier now than it had been when his legs were corporal.

"Of course."

* * *

He feels like a block of ice…_Sherlock, please…_

* * *

January 15, 2011. 10:34 AM

Sherlock managed to get Eddie Malcovitch's mother to let them into her son's bedroom, citing a further police investigation, and showing Lestrade's nicked ID tag. John usually would have taken issue with this, but under the circumstances he felt it could be justified.

Sherlock storms through Eddie's personal things, searching for anything that could be tied to his crimes. Unfortunately, to John standing in the middle of the room, the place looks absolutely normal. He could see himself living here.

In fact…

John tilts his head thoughtfully, and bends down to the underside of the bed, and yep—there it is.

"Sherlock," Sherlock jerks up, and heads in the direction of his voice. "Look under the edge of the bed." The detective bends down, and pulls out a tattered black journal. It looked familiar.

"I have one just like it. We all bought one together in Afghanistan."

John could see Sherlock dying to ask questions, like 'if you were all such great friends, why is one killing all the others?' but there just wasn't time. He flipped open the covers, and stares down at the symbols that line the page uncomprehendingly.

"It's Farsi. These are a string of numbers that make up the code we all used together. The book we went out of changed, but it was always marked by the top cipher and the bible."

Sherlock stares up at where John's voice is coming from, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

"Reminds you of that Blind Banker case, doesn't it?" John says, and Sherlock grins further, before jumping up to find a Bible.

Sherlock then lays out the cipher journal on the table, and opens the Bible.

"Tell me the numbers." He orders, and John runs his finger down the page.

"Okay, first one. 109-8-3."

Sherlock fingers fly through the worn Bible, before looking up.

"Lord."

"Write it down."

Sherlock tears out the back page of the holy book, before digging out a pen from some inner pocket, ignoring John's exclamation.

"What?" John just shakes his head.

"Alright, next numbers. 82-8-1."

Sherlock scribbles down 'of'. John goes on.

"31-6-6."

'The' is added to the list.

"1-41-42."

Sherlock pauses.

"That doesn't work. Are you sure?"

John peers over Sherlock's shoulder at the Bible, and sure enough, there aren't enough lines to account for that. He checks his translation, but no, that was correct. Then he remembers them doing something different for words that were hard to find.

"Try it as a reference. Genesis 41:42." Sherlock goes there, and reads out the verse. One word sticks out.

"And Pharaoh took off his ring. Ring, it's got to be that. Then it's Lord of the Rings." Sherlock looks up towards him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, that was one of the books we'd use."

Sherlock puts down that word, gestures for the next one.

"Okay, 6-16-6."

Sherlock flips the pages.

"Return."

John knows which book know, and scans the room. Sure enough a copy of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy adorns the book case.

"Sherlock, it's that one. Lord of the Rings, Return of the King." John chuckles. "It was my favorite."

"Yes, well, if we hurry it might just save your life." Sherlock grabs the book, and opens it. "Numbers?"

John reads them out.

They end up with this phrase.

'I will hide them underground, in the cold and dark, where nobody can find them, until they are dead. Lambas Palace and Upper Marsh.'

"Sherlock, that's an address. Lambeth Palace and Upper Marsh. It's got to be. We've got an address!"

Sherlock is already dialing out Lestrade's number.

* * *

_Coldcoldcoldcold…._

* * *

January 15, 2011. 10: 47 AM

Sherlock and John can hear the ambulances tailing them, but the handful of cash Sherlock shoves at the cab driver ensures that they get there first. It's a wide street, with cars rushing past.

Sherlock is impatient when he realizes that they'll need to wait for the police to get here to close off the road. John's sure that they are close, there's some feeling inside him, a tug to go back where he belongs.

Sherlock watches the street, and his eyes catch on a manhole that looks as if it's been moved recently. He sees a break in traffic, and heads out resolutely.

"Sherlock! There are cars coming." Sherlock ignores him, pulling out his phone, and snapping a photo of the loose manhole covering. "Sherlock come on, get out the way."

John would dearly like to not see his friend smeared over the concrete. Luckily, Lestrade arrives, and the area is quickly cordoned off.

Various hands grab hold of the cover, including Sherlock's which John is mildly touched to see, and pull hard. The metal plate slides and snow bits fall into the hole. At the bottom, barely to be seen, are three crumpled bodies.

Lestrade yells, moving people into action. Ambulance technicians scuttle around, and officers follow their orders and keep the public away. Sherlock Holmes sits staring down into the hole, gripping the edge with white knuckles. John wants to grab his shoulder, but he knows that Sherlock won't feel it, since, _insanely_ his body is down in that pit. Instead he murmurs to Sherlock, causing him to stiffen.

"Sherlock, it'll be all right. I'm just down there. They'll get me out, and everything will be okay."

"Sherlock, you've got to get out of the way." Lestrade unknowingly cuts into the conversation. He's leading a team of EMTs over, and Sherlock scrambles back to make room for them.

After a moment's climbing and rigging up jury-harnesses, there are people down in the hole, checking on the status of each body.

Lestrade's radio crackles and Sherlock listens intently.

"All three dead sir." The man pronounces, and Sherlock freezes, face pale. John hears the words, but doesn't comprehend them, feeling a chill in his stomach. How...can he be dead…he's here.

Lestrade's got his eyes closed, when suddenly the radio crackles again.

"Hold on, sir. One's still alive. Barely, but he's still with us."

John feels dizzy and sits down hard next to where Sherlock is crouching. He still hasn't moved, but his eyes have slid closed. Lestrade thanks the man, and they wait in tense silence as the alive one is strapped down to a board, and brought up. John feels like crying in relief as he sees familiar looking sandy hair, and a _very_ muddy cream jumper. It's him. He's alive!

"Sherlock, did you see? It's me, I'm alive!" Sherlock lets out a noisy breath, and follows the stretcher to the ambulance.

* * *

January 15, 2011. 12:24 PM

The hospital was noisy, and distracting. Sherlock had been following a wheeled stretcher, eyes never leaving the still figure on the bed, for as far as they'd let him go. He was now pacing the waiting room.

John's voice had followed him into the hospital, and was still here. Sherlock got the feeling he was pacing with him.

"Why am I still out here?" John was musing. "Should I go back into my body now that I'm being taken care of?"

Sherlock shrugs, trying not to be too conspicuous as he answers in a murmur.

"I dunno. Maybe you have to wake up first?"

John sighs. "Maybe I'm just ready to be done with this whole thing, and have everything back to normal."

Sherlock nods emphatically. Just then his phone rings. Mycroft's name shows on the screen, and he makes a face.

"We found him, brother, no thanks to you." Sherlock sneers. Mycroft's voice sounds tinny in his ear.

"I'm aware of that. I simply thought you'd like to know that this Eddie Malcovitch won't be bothering you any longer."

Sherlock raises his eyebrow.

"What did you do?" He asks.

"Oh, nothing he won't survive—"

"Unfortunately."

"Quite. But, needless to say, he won't be in a position to cause any more…trouble"

Sherlock feels a rather foreign surge of gratitude towards his brother.

"Thank you." He says quietly.

"Hah, then perhaps you can oblige me by taking the next few cases I indulge you with?"

All good feeling towards Mycroft vanishes, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Goodbye Mycroft." He ends the call, and then looks around.

"Did you hear? Eddie Malcovitch has been taken care of." Sherlock says very quietly. It wouldn't do to have some well-meaning nurse check him in for a psych evaluation.

John's voice comes from behind him, cause his to spin around.

"I heard, Sherlock. That's good news."

"You don't sound happy."

There's an exhalation. "I'm just tired of being this way. I want to get back in my body."

Sherlock frowns.

At that moment, a doctor wearing an extremely neutral expression comes around the corner and heads towards Sherlock.

"You came in with John Watson?" He asks, and Sherlock nods.

"Sherlock Holmes. I should be on the form as next of kin."

The doctor nods.

"His condition is rough. He was severely hypothermic when he was brought in, not to mention a broken collar bone, concussion, bruises, and severe lacerations over much of his body. Frankly, it's amazing he survived as long as he did, even though he hadn't been down that hole as long as the other men were." Sherlock is feeling sick to his stomach, and he doesn't even want to think about how John is feeling with all this happening to him.

"We've warmed him up, set the bones, and stitched the cuts, the worst being a deep gash in his right thigh. He'll probably need PT in order to gain full use of it back. Right now, though, it's the concussion that worries us. There's minimal bleeding and swelling, but he's non-responsive. We can only wait for him to wake up.

John whispers somewhere behind him. "I'm in coma because I'm still out here…"

* * *

January 15, 2011. 3:47 PM

It was a strange feeling to sit beside one's own bedside. John looks down at…himself…though he could hardly recognize the lump of purple and blue flesh as his own body. He is breathing with a ventilator, and the monitors send out a steady beat. But himself, his conscious thoughts still are outside the body, in this incorporeal form, sitting in chair beside Sherlock.

"How does it feel?" Sherlock asks suddenly. John knows that these periodic questions are Sherlock's way of making sure he's still there, and not flown off into some afterlife, soon to be followed by the flat line of the body on the bed. John obliges with the same answer he gave him ninety minutes ago.

"Weird."

Sherlock nods, and stares again at the John on the bed. John looks too. He really looks awful. There is a great red gash stitched down his cheek, and bandages can be seen peeking up from under the hospital gown, showing where the gashes reach across his chest and side. He's been given anitbiotics, but the blood tests have already shown a rise in white blood cells, indicating an impending infection. They're on the look out for a fever now.

John swallows, and turns again towards Sherlock's white face.

Sherlock speaks again.

"What happened with your team in Afghanistan?" John bows his head. This was one question Sherlock hadn't asked, not since their spat before all of this mess. John was still ashamed of his part in that travesty, but he knew that Sherlock deserved to hear the truth.

"We were assigned as a team together because we were friends before. The four of us, Hugo, Dan, Eddie, and me…used to call us the four Musketeers. Then, about six months before I was shot, there was a journalist assigned to our regiment."

"A women." It was not a question. John smiled wistfully.

"She was gorgeous. Red hair, a fiery attitude, and fearless under fire. She'd do anything to get her story. Everyone in the camp was in love with her. He name was Lisa. Eddie and I both had it bad for her. We even fought over it, but in the end, she picked me."

John brushes his fingers over his lips at the memories.

"Eddie took that terribly. By this time, we were training as a special ops team, the four of us, and things were tense between me and him. Then…"

John broke off, and Sherlock frowns, moving his eyes from the John in the bed, to where the John who's speaking is sitting. "What happened?"

"Lisa was kidnapped, right under our noses by the Afghani soldiers. Our team was sent out after her. We found the trail, and followed it, right into their camp. We found her, beaten, but alive. I was never so happy."

John wipes his face, and continues. "We were sneaking out then, and then…all hell broke loose. The enemy soldiers discovered us, and began firing. I ducked down, dragging Lisa with me, but we couldn't move fast enough with her injuries. Then grenades were flying, some from us, some from them, and I lost hold of her. Next thing I know, there's an explosion, and I'm flying back, holding….holding her hand, but nothing else. She'd been blown apart by someone's bomb. For all I know, it could have been mine."

Sherlock reaches a hand, like he wants to grip John's shoulder in comfort, but then lets it fall back to his lap. John continues with difficulty.

"Eddie blamed me entirely. Said that if it had been him holding onto her, he wouldn't have lost her…I guess he never let go of that."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, so he settles on bowing his head. Some kind of remembrance for the dead woman his friend had loved.

* * *

January 16, 2011 6: 45 AM

It isn't until the next day that John feels himself being pulled, as if he's sliding out of focus. He's being tugged towards the bed, past Sherlock, whose head is down on the covers, finally asleep (though not for lack of trying to stay awake) and into the form on the bed. There's a moment of black stillness and then…_pain…_

He is swimming up through the blackness, with new and intense pain beating in on him from all sides. His back, sides, legs, arms, face….each one has its own distinct kind of pain. He twitches, furrows his brow, and he tugs his eyes open.

Immediately the light blinds him, which makes no sense because he knows its dark in the room. He was just out there. Yet, his eyes are watering from the brightness, so he blinks rapidly, trying to clear them. His efforts bring the room and its sole occupant into focus. Sherlock is sitting up now, staring at him with wide eyes, and it was such a _good_ feeling to see his eyes looking back at him. Sherlock could actually see him. He tries to smile and ends up only lifting one corner of his mouth. It seems it was enough, however, for Sherlock breaks into the widest grin he's ever seen on the detective's face.

John wiggles the fingers on the hand closest to Sherlock, and _gosh_ it hurts, but then Sherlock lays his hand over it, gripping gently. John returns the grip as best he can, and again meets the eyes of his friend.

Sherlock then leans in, and whispers.

"Good to see you."


End file.
